Nine Years
by f U n N i E b O n E s 2K
Summary: QWxDC: Fourth installment: "I was haunted… haunted by the fear of having to bury my own son-without even burying his own father..."
1. Mistaken

Nine Years

"Seňorisa Catalonia?" the old shop keeper repeated in a confused tone and furrowed brows.

Quatre Raberba Winner nodded to the old shopkeeper. Why did the man act like she didn't exist? He was certain she was in this town. The old man continued to look at him as if he was crazy, examining him like he was a specimen in a bottle and it bothered Quatre a bit.

"You must be mistaken, Seňor. That is no longer her name. She married, oh, must have been nine years ago," the man annunciated slowly with his rich accent.

* * *

_Nine years earlier…_

He hummed quietly and contentedly to himself as he bounced down the steel bridge of the plant, feeling content to hear the rhythmic clang of his feet against the metal. It had all been the same – the clang of the metal, the synthetic sky hovering over him, the glass dome surrounding that served as their base, the feel of his trousers against his skin, yet it felt different. She was going to marry him. They were going to have a family.

He so cruelly left his intended with a token of his promise to marry her, without warning, without a goodbye. But he promised that as soon as he came home, he would make things right. But first he had to take care of a few things – test new mobile suits for defense, oversee the training of a defense army, just to make sure he could lend a hand in sealing the fragile peace he had given up his childhood for so that his children won't have to give up theirs.

It was so hard not to think of the future that seemed so clear for them, so hard to focus on his purpose here and think of what was out there. He tried to imagine what she would look like as the church doors opened on their wedding day, he was unsure of what she would be adorned in, whether it be lace, satin or silk, or white or ivory, or diamonds or pearls, but he was certain that she would be beautiful no matter what. He pictured lots of children – he loved children. He could see himself smiling across a long mahogany table at her at dinnertime, grinning from ear to ear, while mouthing playful words to her, while their children would noisily chatter and trouble the servants around them. He envisioned holding her hand while they watched the sun set as they gracefully aged together.

His dream was rudely interrupted by a clamoring red alert and the ferocious rumble and tumble of the ground beneath him. He felt the glass clank and jangle around him, and men were screaming frantically below him. He held on to the metal bars that surrounded him for a moment, but he knew the bridge was about to fall apart. Quickly, he ran to the other end of the bridge, not noticing the torrent of flames and smoke hurrying towards him. When he finally noticed the surge, he fell against the ground and felt pieces of broken mobile suit tear away at his body.

Amidst the bursting debris and fleeing glass, he could see no one but Dorothy.

* * *

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	2. Reunion

Nine Years 

She had been the same, strong, independent character that he first met although she simply sat there on the blanket, placing her right palm down on it for leverage. Yet she was also the delicate, vulnerable porcelain doll he longed to touch, but he feared he would break. He could see that age had no effect on her, although he felt much, much older than her due to his many struggles, lack of luxuries, and scarcity of bare necessities. The hair that used to pool around her no longer encircled her body; instead, her hair fell on her shoulders. She was still beautiful. Nothing had changed her externally. But he did not think of this. Considering all his pain, he wondered, had her heart been broken?

If she had been married for nine years…he presumed that she had moved on quickly after learning of his disappearance and it chipped away at his heart some more to dwell on it, for he had thought of her every day, pined for her every hour. Had she so easily forgotten about him as evidenced by her quick marriage to another? Many gluttonous, hasty ideas flooded his brain as he fought the urge to sweep her up into his arms. Instead, he demanded the answer to the question that had broken his heart.

"Why did you marry him?"

She turned around to acknowledge a vague voice before she realized that she was face to face with a ghost of her past. Only he was real. He was alive. It comforted her, yet at the same time, it upset her. He looked years older, weary, unhappy, broken. His hair was obviously shorter, his body toned due to years of hard work, his face kind, yet rough. He was no longer the rich, gentle-looking ex-pilot that had swept her off her feet several years ago, but he swept her off her feet once again. In spite of his scraped appearance, all of what boiled inside continued to boil – there hasn't been a day since he saved her soul that she did not dream of him. She was so sure – she had accepted that he had been stolen from her, never to return again. But now he had come back, conceivably demanding a place in her life, obviously demanding an answer for her marriage.

Her mouth, dry, her heart beating faster and faster, the waves crashing behind them, did not help her.

"Why did you marry him?" he demanded of her again. She could feel his anger against her betrayal.

"I-I didn't think you'd come back!" she spat back, defending herself. She fought the urge to draw him to her, to thank the heavens for his return. She was torn between feeling anger for doubting his return and confusion, for believing this is so real. She wanted to throw her arms around him, hold him, prove to herself he is real, that this is now and not then and certainly not a cruel dream that had taunted her more times than she could suffer through.

"We loved each other. You were going to marry me. Wasn't that enough for you to believe that I'd come back to you?"

"When you were presumed lost and later declared dead was I supposed to assume you would rise from the dead? You never even said goodbye! I was all alone! What was I supposed to do? Be a fool and not take advantage of the many offers I've had?"

Her voice was dripping with dulled anger and resentment. It was as if she was angry that he had come back. He blinked at her once, unable to escape the coming threat of tears that gathered in his eyes. The memory of their last moment lingered vividly in his mind. It gave him comfort yet it tortured him with its existence the fact that it could never happen again was what killed him.

He remembered the way her skin felt against the calloused pads of his fingers, how it tickled him to feel her breath and hair against his skin, how she giggled carelessly at his touch, how the caress of her lips against his made him drunk with desire – all of this against a burnt orange sky, an opulent sunset. How could he ever forget? All these years, she was all he dreamed of, their last moment together kept him going on – and now it he had survived it all, he had to face her rejection? He would especially remember the cruel way he had left her there without a goodbye, so sure he'd be back, but unable to say goodbye. But how could he have known that he'd be separated from her for so long?

"But I'm here now. If you'll have me…"

She had remembered the large, princess-cut ring he had left her before he disappeared. The gem was adorned with baguette diamonds on the side and set in the finest metal, platinum, but no piece of jewelry could compare to the size of his love for her. He had asked her earlier if she would marry him, but did not present a ring, but in spite of that, she unfalteringly said yes. She kept the ring to this day, aching to wear it publicly, but was destined to stare at it through blurred eyes and closed doors.

"That offer was open to me years ago before you disappeared. Things are different now. You may be foolish, but you're not brainless. I was born a Catholic, and I've married a Catholic man. I've devoted my life to this religion ever since you've been gone to keep me going on, to drive me away from suicide, and it's a sin to leave my husband in hopes of rekindling an old flame we shared when we were so young. He loves me. He loves my son. He is the only father my son knows. Am I supposed to tear that away from them so I can satisfy my selfishness?"

Another revelation shocked him. She'd had a son with this man? How could things be possibly any worse? He always dreamed of hearing his baby kick in her stomach, he always envisioned that the two of them would watch their baby's first steps or hear their baby's first words. Unfortunately for him, this was only a fantasy, a dream that could not come true. What he didn't realize was that she didn't reveal to him her feelings were for her husband. If only he didn't feel a burst of emotions inside, he would be able to function correctly and suspect that there were things that she chose not to tell him.

She knew this was cruel. To bend, twist, hide, dement the truth – but life had to go on. She was different now. Ever since he had gone, she had changed. Part of her died when he had disappeared. But she was going to take responsibility for the choices she made.

Even though she credited him for saving her, it was she who gave him something to live for after the war. The aftermath of the war had left him with a broken childhood. Full of shadows, full of darkness, full of sleepless nights consumed by fear and horror, he didn't know if he could get out. But amongst the shadows, he found her. She helped him carry a burden he thought he would carry alone all his life. For a while, he saw meaning. He knew what it was like to truly, selfishly want something, yet did not feel guilty about it. But now, his family must have received all of his estates and the fortune must be gone by now and he would have to start from scratch, but that was no concern of his. Any life, just as long as it was with her would be comfortable.

Instead, he tried to steer her away from destroying the _comfortable_ life she had made for herself.

"What does he look like?" he asked her in a pained tone.

She inhaled deeply. "As I first held him in my arms, I fell in love with him instantly."

He would never know what it was like to fall in love with his newborn child with her. He would never know what it would feel like to be a husband, a father, to revel in a luxury that is really a simple life, to be wholly complete. Never would he love again. His eyes fell accusingly over her, hurt for realizing that her son wasn't really his, but slowly realizing the pain she felt all these years. He could see in her eyes the torment in her soul. He could remember what her eyes looked like, the image was freshly imprinted in his mind, when her eyes were brimming with happiness and bliss. He could no longer find that, and he realized he had to settle for the past and be thankful that he had experienced it.

"I won't ruin the life you've created for yourself."

Even this encounter could jeopardize the respectable reputation she has established for herself. Local gossipmongers could be scattered about on the beach, hungry for the identity of this man she was so animatedly conversing with.

"Why did you come back, Quatre? I can't say I've been happy without you – but I've accepted that you've gone – never to return. When I thought you died – I gave everything away just to be held. But no one could ever take the place of you."

"—that is until _he_ came along," she hastily added, obviously sounding unsure. Obviously, this was a lightly disguised lie to ask him not to ask her to abandon her faithful husband. She didn't love her husband. Quatre had robbed her of the ability to romantically love someone else. No one could ever replace her Sandrock pilot. But it was too late now. She had led a comfortable life that she settled with for many years. She led a life most women would covet. But she paid with such a dear price for a life of material luxury.

"I see – so the two of them have taken my place in your heart? Is there no room for me that you could somehow squeeze in?"

His sad blue eyes fell upon her. She felt enveloped by a rush of even more grief. She shut the tears away with her eyelashes. It was expected of her, it was what was right – not necessarily for her – to lie to him. Quatre would always have a large chunk of her heart. After all – she would not have it had it not been for him. Painfully, slowly, she shook her head.

He felt strings tug and twist his heart. He closed his eyes and nodded. He would never look at anyone the way he has looked at her. He could only watch from a distance, protect her from a distance, make sure no harm would come her way. And every night, he would close his eyes and dream of what could have been, of what should have been had he not so foolishly sacrificed his life for a fragile peace that not only left him alone but disillusioned as well. He couldn't forgive himself for accepting the assignment, for always being the optimist, for never thinking of the worst. For that, he would pay dearly. Ironically, he gave up the great love of his life to protect a fragile peace that would someday be broken.

She watched him turn around with tears that could no longer be shed, for she has none to shed. Suffering for all those years, desperately trying to bury a secret, clinging to what _was_ and never will be again has dispirited her. She would do anything to hold him again.

A nine-year-old boy, who was too little for his age, and covered in speckles of sand, trudged towards his mother. He carried a bucket in one hand and a shovel on the other. He saw the retreating back of a man who he had never seen before but looked oddly familiar. He also did not fail to notice the spellbound gaze his mother cast on him. He dropped his belongings on the sand and ran to his mother, curious of what had passed between them.

"Mama, who is that?" the little boy asked, tugging down his mother's hand.

She stooped down and balanced herself on the balls of her feet to be in eye level with her son. His little blue eyes were brimming with such wonder, such vigor, such kindness that she was so familiar with. The little boy had looked at her with the same piercing blue eyes that first pierced her so long ago in her youth, when she first met the fifteen-year old Quatre Raberba Winner during the war. She ran her hand though his dirty blonde hair and hugged him tightly, not minding the sand that enveloped his body.

"He's the man I named you after."

* * *

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	3. Discovery

Nine Years 

"Heero. I need your help."

The ex-pilot's impassive face suddenly contorted into a puzzled look. Heero rubbed his eyes. It was two-thirty a. m. Had he been dreaming? Is this a ghost he was speaking to? No. It couldn't possibly be. Quatre disappeared into the depths of the universe nine years ago.

"Quatre?" Heero asked, opening his eyes wide. On the other side of the videophone, Quatre felt impatient, and was surprised at himself for his lack of emotion towards his fellow pilot. It had been nine years since they conversed. Nine years ago, he warmly greeted his friends and invited them to his house, and today, he felt rather impatient, and besides that, nothing at all. They had worked for the same cause during the war. Heero was going to be one of his groomsmen…for the wedding that never happened.

But Quatre had changed. He had been hardened by destitution and loss. Nine years had been a long time. Toiling away like a slave at that exploitative mine, eager to survive.

"What happened to you, Quatre? Do you know what you've done to her? Relena and I…we were there…she was so sick. My God, I don't even know where to start," Heero choked out. He had changed too. Perhaps it was marriage and fatherhood that had softened him. Maybe it was through Dorothy's example that he had learned the true meaning of loneliness.

Initially, Quatre had been disinterested about what his friend had to say. But as soon as he mentioned Dorothy, the tables were turned.

"What happened to her?"

Heero swallowed, looking pale as he thought of what had passed nine years ago. Quatre straightened himself up, taking a large intake of breath.

"After she heard the news, she locked herself up in her room for a month. Then, we found her one day, standing above the marble staircase where she lived, with her arms held up to the sky, about to jump. According to the maids, she had done that more than twice. That was only the beginning. We found a few revolvers in her room, bottles of sleeping pills and morphine. It wasn't until one day that she stopped and told us she was going to marry this Mocenigo character." Heero didn't add that the marriage had been a romantic failure, but a social success for both. He also didn't add that Mocenigo had several mistresses to give him what Dorothy refused him. And although Heero wanted to, he did not urge Quatre to see the boy.

Quatre felt comfort that she had been heartbroken after all over his sudden disappearance, yet pain that he had caused it, and so quickly decided she would throw him away for another.

"So will you help me?"

Although Quatre had asked, his tone gave Heero no choice.

"What do you need? Weapons and chemicals to dispose of the body afterwards?" Although Heero had been serious, Quatre glared at him, mistaking his seriousness for amusement.

"I need a job, I'd prefer it so that I can stick around here and watch over her," Quatre interjected with a correcting tone, and it made Heero re-think of a few select words to say to his friend. Quatre was no longer the nice guy everybody picked on, instead, he had turned into the curt, businesslike man his father would have wanted him to be. Heero had wondered if Dorothy had seen the change.

After shifting in his seat for several moments, Heero agreed with a nod.

"Actually, Quatre, Mocenigo has had some rather questionable dealings concerning pharmaceuticals. I have reason to believe that he is helping the local street pharmacists in Italy. We've tried to get Dorothy to help, but I also have reason to believe that her husband controls her loyalty. See if you can check into that. That will be your first assignment. I will have a few necessary items wired to you."

Quatre nodded, accepting the mission.

"Oh, and Heero…"

Heero looked back at him expectantly, with one finger about to terminate the connection.

"Don't tell anyone of my emergence. Not a word," Quatre said.

He didn't give his friend the chance to reply as he deactivated the device.

* * *

A solitary, lonely violin softly sang its weeping tune, and it seemed to be reaching out into nothingness as the crashing waves swallowed the yearning whole. No response had come back. Still, the little boy kept playing, ever so faithful, ever so hopeful for a ship, a man, a shell, anything, but simultaneously, finding comfort in his music. The boy sat with his toes tucked under his legs and let the wind gently sift his golden locks. From a fairly large distance, the tune had beckoned Quatre to come closer to this boy, and had surrendered to its unassuming power over him. 

Quatre had hoped that Dorothy would be at the beach again, ignoring the hurt he had associated with the place, to question her again, not about her choice, but her husband's dealings. The man had committed a crime against him, and he was driven with mad hate to repay him. Before he approached her, he darted back to his small apartment, and researched him thoroughly, like he had been a mad scientist, frantically looking for the cure of some infectious disease.

Sure, this would not take away the hurt of her betrayal, but he had loved her too much that it was easy to forgive her. Besides, he knew in his heart that nine years before, he had meant to her more than anything else in the world. He had hoped that she married this man for some reason. He had taken this job to find out exactly why.

Giovanni Mocenigo had relentlessly courted Dorothy before, during and after her two-year relationship with Quatre. They had kept everything beyond the Libra incident a secret to the public, but certainly their colleagues knew that the two were deeply in love and planning to marry. She had wanted him to wait until he was eighteen for them to marry. She knew that eighteen was a tender age to marry, but she had never loved and been loved this much in her life.

She also wanted to clear her name and make reparations for the damages she and her family have made against the world. Mocenigo was a fool to be blinded by the truth, but it undoubtedly assisted him in the end, when Quatre _died_ and Dorothy had dismissed all of her aficionados. It was all Quatre's fault, she said. Quatre had taken up too much room in her heart and didn't want to share that she couldn't possibly entertain any of these bright, rich young men.

He wondered if the marriage had been a happy one, he hoped in his heart of hearts that it did not so he could save her from the misery. Happiness what she had deserved especially because she had experienced a rocky childhood that left her scars within her heart, but he always thought her happiness rested with him. He couldn't possibly have seen her finding happiness with someone else because he, of course, knew he couldn't possibly be happy without her. And for nine years, he had been hard-bitten by the hungry mouth of destitution, angry and disillusioned without her.

But the music had erased away the tide of mad rage he felt inside.

There were glitches in the tune, and the melody was obviously being played by an amateur, but the onrush of emotion and sincerity within the playing was what captivated Quatre. It had reminded Quatre of his passion to play not so long ago. It had reminded him of the only thing his father accepted as one of his accomplishments. It had reminded him of what solace it brought him during the war. It had reminded him of the bond Trowa and he had formed through music. It had reminded him of what delight it brought Dorothy as he played even the simplest of all tunes for her. The music seeped through his many layers of hardness; it had overcome the iron grip that gripped his heart.

The boy was quickly broken out of his concentration by the thought that someone was watching him. He abruptly stopped and Quatre had been immediately disappointed. Quatre had the idea of running away, but instead, his body moved him to talk to the boy. A surge of nervousness flooded him. As if in slow motion, the little boy suddenly turned to look at him, presenting his oddly familiar profile to him. A close encounter to a heart attack came next.

Instantly, he realized why Dorothy had married so hastily, and so easily deserted her suicidal streak.

The little boy looked at Quatre with the same face.

_Why hadn't she told him?_

He felt the power to press the boy's cheek against his own and say his papa had come back. He felt the longing to smile for once, for it had made sense after all. But also, he felt the pain within him a second later when he realized he could not hold the boy in his arms, that he could not tell him the truth. It was not as easy as picking his life back up like the table had been set and his wife had been anticipating him with a warm dinner at home for nine years. In fact, for nine years, the wife he should have had, had been playing house as someone else's wife. She had waited for different man every night for nine years. The table had been set by servants and Dorothy had probably awaited this man with rum on the rocks.

The boy stood up, gazing up at the man who he had faintly remembered. There was something comforting yet intimidating about this man. They had the same face, he realized. How could that possibly be? He slowly walked towards him, not once taking his sharp gaze away from him. Slowly, almost laboriously, he raised his hand.

"My name is Quatre. Quatre Mocenigo, señor," the boy said with a tremble in his voice, extending his hand while looking up the man who had the same face as he.

Quatre stared at the boy blankly, his eyes large, filled with fear.

The boy had been so small, looking so frail and almost sickly. Had he been born prematurely? He knew Dorothy had attempted suicide shortly after hearing the news of his disappearance, but quickly turned around and changed her ways. He was thankful the boy had survived.

The boy had left his precious violin and bow carelessly forgotten on the sand. This man had fascinated him, he felt drawn to this man, who had done nothing but look at him. He stood there, for a long moment, his hand getting tired. For some odd reason, he wanted to be friends with this man.

Quatre wanted to be friends with this boy. Although he had desperately wanted to be, and would give anything this very moment to be, he would become his papa later. After all, nine years of absence had been more than abomination to this little boy; he could not do anything to drive away the emptiness the boy must have felt. He sensed through the way he played his music that his childhood had not been a very happy one.

He shook the boy's hand, careful not to say his name, although it seemed as if the boy had no problem with it at all.

"That was very good. I-I liked it very much. I haven't heard a boy as young as you play as well as someone twice your age. I used to play the violin once, when I was a soldier," he said as he pulled his hand back.

The boy nodded, and then lowered his head to the ground, concealing his confusion. No one, except his mother had ever complimented him, or even showed any signs of appreciation towards his playing before. Quatre studied his son's face, completely understanding what Dorothy had meant when she said she instantly fell in love with him. She had raised the boy well without him, and he could see that she took such great lengths not to let Mocenigo spread his influence over his son. The boy raised his head to look at Quatre.

"My mama bought me this violin for my sixth birthday. I didn't want to play at first, but when I realized it made her happy, it made me happy. And now I enjoy making music."

Quatre was bowled over. They had the same face, the same name, the same passion for music, and the same love for Dorothy Catalonia. She had breathed life into him, and now into this little boy. They were carbon copies of each other. Slowly, he brought himself down to eye level with his son and looked into his eyes.

"Where is your mother?"

The boy's lower lip trembled. His eyes immediately became watery.

"She's at home…dealing with my father. Usually, when they…when they _talk_, she tells me to go out and play somewhere. I don't know why," the boy choked out. Quatre didn't like the word careful word choice and the tone his son had used to explain their situation.

"Look, she's probably fine. She probably sends you away because we adults talk about the most boring subjects and that's why we're so grumpy all the time."

The boy smiled and revealed his teeth, even though he knew it was a lie, but he appreciated the fact that this man could make him smile a lot easier than his father ever could. He knew what went on every time his mother sent him away. He longed to protect her; he knew she was defending him. What had he done wrong? He didn't remember what he could have done to his father for him to treat him indifferently. Little Quatre heard nothing but slurs from him and saw nothing but disgust from Mocenigo towards him.

"While we're here, why don't I take the opportunity to ask you if you wanted me to show you some pointers in playing?" Quatre asked, noticing the masked sadness in the boy's eyes.

The boy certainly knew that he had the finest tutors that money could buy, and this man was certainly no Paganini, but he had the warmth, and the eagerness none of his instructors ever displayed. They all seemed to be impatient and cold with him, obviously only there for the hefty check the Duchess would give them. This man, though he did not even know his name, had gained his trust so easily, without barriers. The two had so quickly formed a rapport within minutes of meeting. There was something extraordinary going on.

The boy looked at Quatre, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I would like that."

Quatre smiled back.

"Good, that's settled then, I'll see you tomorrow, same time, same place?" Quatre asked as he stood up.

The little boy shook his head.

"No, my mother doesn't even know I'm at the beach today. Please meet me at the house. I live in the Mocenigo manor, just near the Piazza. My father won't be there, but my mama…she will be very glad to meet you," the boy blurted out quickly.

Quatre appreciated the welcome the boy had given him. Now he had access to the Mocenigo manor, through his own son. He nodded, and with a wave, he turned around to walk away.

"And señor?" The boy called out to him. Quatre stopped in his tracks and looked at the boy expectantly.

"Are we going to be friends?"

For the first time in a very long time, Quatre smiled and grinned. A chuckle had escaped his lips.

"We're going to be great friends, Quatre. In fact, we're going to be the best of friends."

The boy nodded exuberantly, his blue eyes dancing in delight.

"I like the sound of that, señor."

* * *

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	4. Longing

Nine Years

"I met the boy, three weeks ago," Quatre began, providing an explanation for his three-week absence as Dorothy poured a glass of water for him. She thrust the glass to him, and he took it, covering her fingers with his. He heard her suck in her breath soundly, as she ever so cruelly peeled her fingers from his grasp. She crossed her arms across her chest and watched him, knowing all along that her son had daily meetings with Quatre, silently allowing and encouraging the rapport between the two.

For three weeks, the boy greeted him at the front gate, during his "nap time." He thought that he slipped out of the house unseen. Quatre learned that for the first five years of his life, Dorothy and the little boy took nap time together, for she would always fall asleep at the boy's bedside, unable to tear her attention away from him. The boy was friendly and eager to learn during the first week, yet on the second week, he proved to be difficult and almost bratty, as if he was testing Quatre's patience. He would be late, pretend to be easily distracted, and initiate water fights, among other things. Quatre would be accommodating and understanding, fully aware that his own son was testing him. Knowing that he had estranged himself from his father, due to his loyalty to fight in the war,Quatre Winnerpromised himself that he would not estrange himself from his own son.

On the third week, the boy would be sad one day, happy the next, and at first Quatre thought this was one of his tests. Then, he later found out that the boy had to endure sleepless nights listening to his parents argue.

He sipped the water, eyeing her suspiciously, waiting for her reaction. He knew that she knew that what he had said just a moment ago was not an explanation, but more of an accusation for not telling him the truth immediately. Mocenigo had just left for another "business trip" an hour ago. Instantly, Quatre had found out that the Mocenigo private jet was probably the only plane that frequently came and went as it pleased in the middle of the day. He also found out that the Mocenigo household had little servants, and he assumed that Dorothy had trust issues in the past with servants. The townspeople of the small Italian island did not travel much, and it was easy to hear the flight of a jet not far away from his house. As soon as he heard the sound, he darted from his apartment, where he had been busy clacking away at the new laptop Heero had furnished him with.

The Mocenigo manor had stretched out so that the entire beach could be theirs, and there were no barriers whatsoever from the terrace to the sand. He found her, standing on the terrace, and their gazes met for a fleeting moment, but just enough for him to memorize her face. Her hair had been up in a chignon and she wore a crocheted white dress that barely covered her shoulders and fell down to her knees. The breeze blew by infrequently, and he watched her tuck the blown hair behind her ear. He didn't once blink. She was the first to break away. She turned around and reached for the glass terrace door, left it ajar, allowing the white chiffon curtain to escape, obviously an invitation to enter her house.

Realizing from the expression on her face that she was fighting the battle of telling him the truth he already knew or not, he turned away from her and looked at the veiled window. He pushed the curtain aside, allowing sunshine to pour into the room. "He's a nice boy. I see you've raised him well." He didn't add that the boy looked unhealthy, in mind, body and spirit.

"Thank you," she said as she crossed the room and demurely placed herself on a settee.

"He plays violin," he continued on.

"Yes, I know. I was the one who encouraged it." She continued to stare at his back.

He let the flimsy veil go, enshrouding the room in shade.

"Let's stop it with this idle conversation," he suddenly blurted out. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He turned around, locked his gaze on her and placed the emptied glass on the side table, not once removing his gaze over her. She looked at him just as scrupulously, wrapping her palm around her knee and taking in a large amount of air as he approached her.

"You started it. I'm simply answering your questions," she quietly said, when she finally gained her composure.

"Tell me," he choked out quietly.

She just looked at him.

He finally reached her, lowering himself so that he could question her thoroughly and without hesitation. He placed his hands over hers, and she closed her eyes, to bar the connection they had made. He could tell that she was fighting an inner battle, to keep the truth hidden or finally reveal it. He knew she had trained herself to lie effortlessly and ceaselessly when it came to the paternity of her son, for she had been certain that there would never be a situation when she had to tell the truth. But now he had come and demanded to hear from her what he already knew was true.

"Tell me, Dorothy. I want to know. I need to know, I want to hear it from you," he urged.

"Tell you what? Tell you what you already know? Yes, he's yours. He only looks like you and has the same name as you, of course he's yours. And yes, Giovanni knows. He has known, perhaps even our little boy knows," she said as she tried to keep the rush of tears from crashing down her cheeks. She couldn't tell him any more, especially about her husband's feelings towards her little boy. Quatre could see from the way her lids trembled and her voice quivered that she was horrified. She opened her eyes and he could see the apparent tinges of red appear in her eyes.

"What else would you like to know?" she asked him in a pained tone, looking like the child she had been so very long ago. He looked at her, feeling the hurt he put her though his line of questioning. But he had to know.

He squeezed her hands against his own. "Dorothy, do you care for me at all?"

She blinked once. She tore herself away from his gaze and his grasp and stood up, revealing her back to him. She sighed deeply.

"Surely, you know my answer." He could hear the defeat in her voice.

He stood up and approached her, wrapping one arm around her waist, and placing his hand around her collarbone. He brushed his lips against her ear.

"What is your answer?" he breathed against her skin. He felt her try to pull away, but to no avail. She simply tilted her neck back, signaling her surrender. He dug his fingers into her waist, reveling in the feel of the fabric of her dress.

Impatiently, he spun her around and pressed his lips against hers, hoping she'd tell him what he needed to hear for so long. His one hand cupped her face gently as he kissed her, and the other trailed from where it rested on her collarbone, up to her neck and to her face. He had been disappointed that she failed to respond to his kiss, but equally encouraged when her hands traveled from his chest to form a loose circle around his neck. She allowed him to kiss her, unable to respond fully due to her treatment of her husband and fear of getting caught.

The way he held her and possessed her reminded her of how empty her marriage had been. Giovanni had loved her, but only deserted her in the end when he realized that he would get none from her. Every time he would try to touch her, she would only move away, or comply in fear. But with Quatre, it was different. She neither had the willpower to refuse nor the abhorrence to his touch. In fact, she dreamed of him every night and prayed for just another moment like this with him. But now it had come true, she could neither have the strength to savor it and comply passionately, nor push him away.

She tore her lips from his away, and his lips met the tears that veiled her cheeks. She unclasped her fingers around his neck, and let them slide down his chest, where he assumed she was ready to push him away. She was reluctant to pull away completely for she desperately longed for his touch, yet reluctant to kiss him back, so she pressed her cheek against his lips, savoring what she could not resist.

"We can't do this," she said as she softly dug her fingers in his chest, "it's wrong. I'm married."

She found the strength to push him away then. She turned around and crossed her arms across her chest, gripping her body tightly.

"You don't love him," she heard him say.

"No, but I do owe him," she finished sadly.

"Owe him what? You can't give him what you've already given someone else. If you owe anything to anyone, you owe me." He didn't hide the fact that he was bitter.

She spun around sharply, anger evident in her eyes.

"Owe you what, Quatre? I handed you everything. You disappeared and I was foolish enough to believe that my son needed a name to inherit and that my claim as the mother of your baby would be laughed off by your family, no matter what kind of paternity evidence I would present them. If anything, I would have brought them disgrace by trying to assimilate a baby made out of wedlock into your family. Furthermore, I insulted my husband by naming my baby after you. I should be ashamed of myself." When she finished, she huffed in disgust.

"You haven't got the faintest idea of what kind of hell I've been through trying to get back to you. Why are you feeling sorry for him?"

_I come back and not only do I find out that you married that…drug lord, you let him mistreat you and our boy?_

"Ever since you've come back, it's always been about you. What happened to you, Quatre? You used to put others before yourself. It seems as if…you're not the man I fell in love with."

There was a long pause. Quatre had hesitated long enough that she quickly felt remorse for her choice of words.

"You can't just…just ignore me, what had happened between us nine years ago, what had just happened between us moments ago."

Her face twisted into a look of disgust.

"I, we, shouldn't have done this. I should never have met you. Not at Relena's school, not at Libra, not even that night."

_"It's been more than a year since the war ended, so why are you still lurking under the shadows?" Relena asked Dorothy over tea. It was a bright and lazy Thursday afternoon, and Relena had decided to pay another "quick" visit to her friend's house. Relena sat demurely with her hands folded neatly across her lap. Dorothy curled up in the comfort of her own home, in the comfort of her bathrobe. She bought a penthouse near the headquarters of the Vice Foreign Minister, Relena Darlian. _

_She managed to keep her present life low key, distancing herself from all but her true friend Relena, and her only living relative, Mariemeia. Although it had been difficult in the beginning, Dorothy had accepted the peace that she discovered had changed her life. She felt that she owed much to the former Queen of the World for forgiving and forgetting her crimes in the past. Soon, she sensed that she would embrace that peace. Like everything else, that too, would take time. _

_Mariemeia and Dorothy had increasingly grown into friends. The little girl's wisdom captivated Dorothy, and in turn, Mariemeia saw a sister figure in Dorothy. Family was what the two girls had longed for, yet were deprived of this luxury. The two found companionship through each other and their strengthened bond grew from the same admiration of Treize._

_"Maybe you should be asking your eternal shadow that." Dorothy pointed out. _

_Relena chuckled. "In fact, I have, but thank you for your kind suggestion." _

_"I don't understand what makes this man so attractive. He runs around like a phantom and his pick up lines consist of 'I will kill you.'"_

_Relena shook her head and chuckled once more. Dorothy was definitely the type of company she enjoyed. _

_"You could find out what it's like to be attracted to someone, if only you'd go out there and meet people." _

_Dorothy raised an eyebrow. _

_"I know how you feel about blind dates and dates in general. But I really would appreciate it if you would just let me set you up with someone--" Relena began, but Dorothy's hand cut her off. _

_Dorothy rolled her eyes. "Oh please, Relena, the last thing I need right now is--"_

_"If you would just let me set you up with someone…I am so sure you will be perfect with. He's rich, he's handsome, he's a gentleman, and so sensitive. I think you two will be perfect. Besides, he already thinks you're beautiful," Relena said persuasively._

_"Relena, really…I really am not in the mood for a date with some sick, obsequious, fifty-year old pervert. I'm going to end up shooting him by the end of the night." _

_"Not once did I say that he is a fifty-year old pervert. In fact, he's much younger. He's a gentleman, and he has ten thousand truckloads of his own money, and he has got to be the kindest person I've ever met." _

_"Relena, if you promote this guy so shamelessly like a slab of meat, why not date him yourself and spare me the trouble of humiliating him?" _

_Relena shot Dorothy a look. _

_"I choose not to date him myself because I am shamelessly infatuated with this assassin who desperately needs a hair cut. Please, Dorothy, go on this date as a favor to me. Do this for me, not for yourself; even though I bet in three years time, you'll be thanking me."_

_Dorothy sighed in defeat. Relena beamed victoriously. _

"You can't sit around and ponder what should have been. I've already done that for us for nine years. You can't ignore the pleas of our young son. Have you heard him play? Have you looked at him straight in the eye? It sickens me to know that he's unhealthy in mind and in soul. I know should have been there to stop that from happening," from the shaky tone in his voice, she could tell that he felt extreme culpability for his absence. She couldn't help but feel equally guilty for making the biggest mistake of her life. A sob shook her shoulders.

"Yes, I've heard him! I've seen him. I'm only his mother, after all. All his life, he's been trying to prove himself worthy of his father's appreciation, although he knows he'll never get it from him. He's vulnerable, doesn't have that much of an appetite and has no friends. For nine years, I was haunted… haunted by the fear of having to bury my own son--without even burying his own father! I didn't know where you were… if you were sick, if you were dead, if you needed me, or if you somehow found your way into the arms of another. But my God, I know I needed you."

The tears freely outpoured then. He pulled her to him, and although she tried to pull away, she found herself surrendering to the familiar touch that did not need hushing. His love for her spoke volumes. He felt her hot tears penetrate through his shirt, and he fought the urge to cry with her and pour out his sorrow over the wasted nine years.

They stood there for a long moment, desperately clinging to each other like they had the last time they were together, nine years ago. He held her until the tears in his shirt dried up. Neither of them spoke, afraid to shatter the moment with stark reality.

"I know it's taken me a long time…but if you care for me at all, Dorothy…I will ask one more thing of you," he said ever so softly on the top of her head.

"What will you ask of me?" she whispered like a girl. Quatre felt like he was lost at another time, another place. He felt as if this were nine years ago, when they first started to fall in love, when their dreams were young. He could feel their dreams come alive again. This encouraged him.

"If you care for me at all…leave him and run away with me. I know I love the little boy…I know that he'll learn to love me in time. I know we can't live off of love like we used to think, but you can't live off of this suffering, either. Run away with me," his voice was dripping with the hazy influence that held her captivated no matter what he talked of.

She sighed, and Quatre sensed her defeat against her battle with reason. He tilted her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes. She lost herself as she looked through his eyes, feeling that she could see his soul. She blinked a few times before she closed her eyes allowed him to kiss her. This time, he gave every bit of himself into this kiss. He pressed his body against her, and kept his eyes shut, wanting to feel every bit of her, wanting to join his soul with hers, wanting to melt into her bones, like nothing could stand in the way. And for a moment, it was only he who moved against her, but slowly, he felt her lips start to move against him, hungry yet hesitating.

He pulled away and pressed his forehead against hers.

"Dorothy, I still love you," he whispered with a sigh. He pulled back and opened his eyes to look at her.

In response, she kissed him back gently and began to speak, when a knock on the door startled them. Dorothy gasped and sprang away from Quatre. She grabbed him by the wrist and pushed him down to a crouch behind the plush sofa. Straightening herself, she hurriedly walked to the door and opened it. The butler greeted her with a raised eyebrow, for usually the duchess waited for him to open the door.

"Yes, Pietro?" The butler thought he heard hushed voices in the room, but he could see no one. The duchess had confined herself from the rest of the world ever since she married into the Mocenigo lineage.

"Señor Mocenigo is on the line, he wishes to speak to you."

Surprised, Dorothy nodded, thanked the butler who was equally dumbfounded, and closed the door behind her. Quatre rose from his squatting position and followed the path she took. She then proceeded behind the desk and activated the device.

"Darling," the eerie voice with the rich accent said. Dorothy winced at the word, but forced a faked smile.

"I know you've been searching for a Stradivarius violin for years now. Well, I've finally found one. An original one."

Why would it be her husband's interest to locate an eighteenth century violin for a boy who is his son in name only?

Antonio Stradivari had been a genius, producing about 1,100 stringed instruments of unsurpassed quality. Many attempts have been made to try to reproduce the quality of the sound that Stradivarius instruments generate, but no instrument can ever compare to an original Stradivarius. It is said that the quality of the violin is attributed to the type of wood Stradivari used; he used wood from an old cathedral. The qualities of the instruments are so astonishing that the word Stradivarius itself can be used to describe something of an unrelated field as excellent.

Quatre looked at Dorothy in an appreciative manner. Quatre had expressed a great interest in merely playing a Stradivarius, and particularly recovering some to place in a museum in his native L4. Before Quatre had disappeared, Dorothy had planned on paying a large sum of money for a genuine Stradivarius as her wedding present to him. She'd taken several pilgrimages to Cremona, the birthplace of the Stradivarius instrument, to try to trace an original Stradivarius for her son since then.

"If you're interested at all…" her husband began in a condescending tone as he noticed her begin to slip away.

She snapped back into the conversation.

"Yes, but of course I am. Do you know its name and the year it was made?"

"It's the Ames Stradivarius, made in 1734."

Dorothy shot him an incredulous look. "But that's been missing since 1945! It can't have possibly--"

"—it's quite possible," he interjected.

Dorothy wasn't about to start a fight with him in front of Quatre. "What is the asking price? I'd like to acquire it as soon as possible. Money is no object."

"I've already negotiated with its owner. He's willing to sell, in one condition."

Dorothy wasn't surprised. Musicians were usually the anomalous kind.

"What is it?"

"He has trouble parting with the instrument. He'd like to meet its new owner before he can close the deal."

Dorothy immediately thought the request was ridiculous, the fact that Mocenigo had located an instrument for little Quatre had been questionable enough. She was going to get her little boy a Stradivarius, however.

She shrugged her shoulders slightly and pressed her lips together. "Arrange to put him on a plane back home with you and he can meet Quatre."

"_You_ don't understand, don't you? He's an invalid. He wants you and the boy to come meet him." Quatre's eyes grew large in anger, noticing the way her husband talked to her, and sensing that he never called their little boy by his first name. Dorothy's eyes shifted to look at his for a fraction of a moment, but that was enough to tell him to stay where he was.

"I do not know when he wants to close the deal, but make sure you're prepared to fly to Cremona anytime," he didn't say anymore as he terminated the connection. Dorothy sighed and fell on the seat behind the desk. Quatre approached her.

"Nine years ago, I searched for a Stradivarius to give to you on the day of our wedding…I never bought it," she confessed.

Quatre realized he didn't even make an attempt to search for a present for her. What could he have given her, one of the richest women in the world? A set of platinum foils? He reached for her hands from across the desk.

"Almost two years ago, for his eighth birthday, I took Quatre to see the Camerata de' Bardi in Pavia. There had been this soloist who played the lead part in _Nessun Dorma_, your favorite. He played a Stradivarius. Quatre immediately took to him and…and…" Her head lolled to her side and pulled her hands away from his grasp.

The Camerata de' Bardi of the University of Pavia had been Quatre's favorite orchestra. He had been a patron of the organization, donating to the cause and funding their projects. He first took Dorothy to see them on the night of their first anniversary, expressing his childhood dream to play with the group. The orchestra was disbanded during the war, but regrouped shortly after the Mariemeia incident.

"And what?"

"Please leave… as you can see, I have things to do," she said as if she suddenly remembered a faint memory. She stood up and looked at him again.

From the edge of the desk, she threw him a haughty glare that seemed all too familiar to Quatre. She hadn't looked at him like that since she was involved with Romafellar. The sudden change of emotion greatly disturbed him; he wasn't going to go without a fight, in fact he wasn't going to go at all.

"No, I can't see it at all! I don't see why you still feel obligated to play the dutiful wife when you don't want to! Remember, I can see through you! What kind of fool do you take me for?"

She slightly tilted her head to her side and pressed her lips together, indicating that she didn't care. He sighed.

"You're the same girl to me, Dorothy Catalonia. You're broken inside. If it wasn't for Quatre, you'd be cruel because you'd be a stranger to a love that keeps you secure. Not one day has passed that I haven't thought of you. You've kept me secure all these years. Does that mean anything to you? It seems to me that you feel the same way about me, but your words give me a different message."

She exhaled sharply.

"Please, I won't ask again…" She didn't dare mention his name again.

"You won't have to," he said before he darted out the glass doors. The wind softly ushered the curtains outside, wanting to follow the path he had taken, but they were bound to the house.

* * *

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